#murderers
Ted Bundy’s Volkswagen Bug after it was impounded after his arrest in 1975.
me starting a new book series: from years of experience and a general underdstanding that interesting plots don’t have happy endings, I know that some or many characters are going to die throughout the series and that I’m just going to have to accept that, because I also know that if there were no deaths then the books would be highly unrealistic and I’d stop enjoying them
favourite character:*dies*
me: *flipping a table* oKAY BUT DID IT HAVE TO BE THISONE?!?
The Murders of Summer Baldwin and Joanna Rogers
Summer Lee Baldwin was a 29-year-old American woman, she was an only child who was close to her family. At the time of her murder, Summer was living in a motel and working as a sex worker, she was also five weeks pregnant. Summer’s body was found stuffed in a suitcase in a landfill on 13th September 2005, she had died from asphyxiation and/ or blunt force trauma and had been beaten before her death.
Joanna Kathryn Rogers was 16-years-old when she went missing in May 2004, after the discovery of Summer’s body police began to wonder if the two cases were linked. A thorough search of the landfill Summer was found in confirmed this; Joanna’s body was found at the same place, also stuffed into a suitcase, she had been murdered in the same manner with the cause of death being asphyxiation and blunt force trauma.
Rosendo Rodriguez III was arrested in connection with the murders, he had no prior convictions. CCTV footage captured Rodriguez buying the suitcase Summer’s body was found in from a Walmart near the landfill. He had also been seen with Summer the night she went missing. Rodriguez was also linked to Joanna and the two were thought to have been acquaintances; analysis of both of their computers confirmed they were known to each other.
Rodriguez refused a guilty plea deal and was found guilty by a jury, he was sentenced to death by lethal injection. He was executed on 27th March 2018.
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Dear Diary, everything still sucks.
The sand never stops getting old fast, the sun won’t go away even when me brain tells me it’s night, I can’t remember a time when I don’t hear an engine turned on, and I miss baths more than I miss me old bed.
But outside of the normal hum and drum of this unpleasant wasteland we call home, a strange new thing did happen.
The sky started falling, that was the first sign that things were off.
At first we were running around and getting our guns, I thought it was the Jumpin Gents, but then I realized that the only engines I was hearing were the ones in our own camp.
Sure metal and burning heap was fallin from the sky along with all kinds of pain and fun varieties of burning death metal. Sure it was doing a wonderful job of hurting and tearing, but none of it was followed by the usual bangs of gunfire.
So I was even more surprised when a man covered in metal feel and made a lovely glowing crater right where Harvy had his piece of junk parked.
He was dark skinned, covered all over in metal, big metal wings on his back, and a metal hoop just dangling above his head.
He come out of his hole, wobbling about and holding his chest, which had a nasty glowing knife in it. He walked up to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and started gasping and bleeding all over my tent.
He was going on and on about how he had slipped through the pearly gates, fought through his brothers and sisters, fell to our little sandpit so that he could finally give us blah, blah, blah.
I patted the metal fella on the arm, gave him my sweetest smile, then yanked the knife out of his chest.
Before burrying it in his throat.
I then yelled out to my little family that it was first come first serve.
They all rushed in and started taking parts of him apart, mostly his armor, but also his halo and wings.
We found that drinking the poor bastard’s blood made none of us thirsty, hell I took a draft and I haven’t had to get a drink in over a week.
Now the lads have come up with some interesting armor out of what they got, and they all have a lovely blade from those feathers that came off of his wings.
Everyone felt strong, and invincible, sure enough some of us are so damn tough that bullets just seem like inconveniences. Everyday we ate more and more of that bastard until we started bleeding blue ourselves.
Now I’m not one to go and throw away a good thing, so we’re going to head over to the Red Pennies and get ourselves some fun and plunder.
Or plunder and fun.
Don’t matter, we gonna make an impact is what it adds up to.
Blessing in disguise.
Cheers.
In December 2006, a guy named Lorenzo Montoya, who lived in a mobile home in the desert less than three miles from the mass burial site, was shot and killed in an incident that was ruled self defense. It seemed that Montoya had picked up a sex worker on the Albuquerque strip and the sex worker’s boyfriend/pimp followed him in order to provide protection. He waited for the girl to come out of the mobile home and when he became alarmed by how long it was taking, he knocked on the door. Montoya came out with a gun and began firing at the boyfriend but missed. The boyfriend retreated to cover, pulled out his own gun and shot and killed Montoya. He then went into the mobile home and found his girlfriend dead by stranglation. No charges were filed against the boyfriend.
At the time this happened, law enforcement was not aware that local sex workers were disappearing. It was considered a “one off” crime that got minimal Medea attention. Two years laters, in 2009, 11 decomposed corpses were found buried in shallow graves. When the bodies turned up, investigators remembered the Montoya case. A look a Google Earth showed vehicle tracks leading directly from Montoya’s mobile home to the dump site. By that time, Montoya’s mobile home and all of his processions had been disposed of. Very little was known about Montoya but no ties could be found linking home to any of the women found buried at the site. Albuquerque investigators did not feel there was sufficient evidence to declare Montoya the perpetrator and close the case but he appears to be a much stronger suspect than any of the others developed.
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Bonnie Parker first met Clyde Barrow through a mutual friend in January 1930, when Bonnie was 19 years old. Barrow, who was 20, was a volatile ex-con and a wanted man who had vowed that he would never go back to prison. After spending much time together during the following weeks, their budding romance was interrupted when Clyde was arrested and convicted of several criminal charges pertaining to auto theft.
Once back in prison, Clyde’s thoughts immediately turned to escape. By this time, he and Bonnie had fallen deeply in love, and Clyde was overtaken by heartache. Sharing his sentiments, much to the dismay of her mother, a lovesick Bonnie was more than willing to help the man she called her soulmate, and soon after his conviction she smuggled a gun into the prison for him.
On March 11, 1930, Clyde used the weapon to escape with his cellmates, but they were captured a week later. Clyde was then sentenced to 14 years of hard labor, eventually being transferred to Eastham State Farm, where he was repeatedly sexually assaulted by another inmate.
In February 1932, Clyde was released from prison when his mother successfully convinced the judge in his case to grant him parole. He and Bonnie reunited, and Clyde embarked on a crime spree with a small group of men, robbing banks and small businesses. Bonnie joined the gang in April, but was captured during a failed robbery attempt and imprisoned for two months. While she awaited trial, she passed the time by writing poetry, much of which chronicled her relationship with Clyde.
In June 1932, the court failed to convict Bonnie after she stated she was kidnapped by the Barrow gang, and she was thus released from custody. She immediately rejoined Clyde, and the couple resumed their crime spree with other gang operatives, taking part in robberies that spanned several states. By 1933, the gang was wanted for several murders, including the deaths of various law enforcement officials. Despite a massive deployment by law enforcement officials that by late 1932 included the FBI, the infamous couple managed to elude authorities and avoid capture for nearly two years, becoming two of America’s most well-known outlaws along the way.
After the murder of a police officer in Commerce, Oklahoma, by gang member Henry Methvin, Bonnie and Clyde were pursued for weeks. In the morning of May 23, 1934, they drove into an ambush on Highway 154 in Louisiana, and were killed by police in a hail of bullets. The ambush was in fact set up by the father of Methvin, who wanted leniency for his son.
By the time of their deaths, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were so famous that souvenir-seekers at the scene attempted to make off with locks of their hair, pieces of their clothing and even one of Clyde’s ears. Their bodies were eventually returned to Dallas, and despite their wishes to be buried side by side, they were interred in separate cemeteries. Thousands traveled to each of their funerals, with newspapers publishing extra editions to mark the services.
Despite their violent crimes and the dogged, ramshackle realities of their existence, Bonnie and Clyde have been heavily romanticized by the media. Their sensational story has seen numerous retellings, including the 1967 Arthur Penn film Bonnie and Clyde, a 2011 Broadway musical and a 2013 made-for-TV miniseries .Their bullet-riddled car remains on display at a resort/casino outside of Las Vegas, Nevada.
In early 2018, production began on a Netflix film about Bonnie and Clyde, this one told from the point of view of the authorities tasked to stop their crime spree.
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Vivi and Toby chilling together
That’s actually a request from a friend ;3
But yeah, both Tobias and Vivienne are goofballs and I’m preety sure that both of them would like to chill and make dumb shit together since anyone else could actually stand them XDDD
Take a look at my new video where I discuss murderers and their Zodiac signs!
“That’s the difference between you and me. When I kill, I don’t pretend I’m justified by some greater cause.”
My mom was always horrible at hiding things. She couldn’t hide from me that we were poor, though she rarely tried. She referred to food stamps often and we lived in a trailer park. She told us right off the bat we were getting toys for tots stuff for Christmas one year. There was a little interests sheet she had to fill out so they could try to match us with toys that would hopefully fit our desires. Present wise, it was bad. They gave us dollar store dolls with hair that came out too easily and plastic that dented at the slightest touch. They were impossible to fix - like an off-brand bottled of water. It wasn’t that toys were cheap that made it bad, it was that we didn’t play with dolls. I was probably eleven or twelve and my sister was in high school and it just wasn’t us. We don’t have pictures of that Christmas, probably because we couldn’t afford the film.
On years she saved and bought presents, I always knew where she hid those, too. At first it was in the cabinets, above the washer and drier, shoved behind towels and double or triple wrapped in Kmart bags. After she realized that spot was useless, she hid them in the nook in her closet that expanded past the boundaries of the sliding doors. Then it was the shed dad built us that was kept locked for the mass amount of tools she housed there. There was a spare, though, and I knew right where it was. Finally she moved them to the toolbox in the bed of her little Mazda pick-up, the white paint chipped and rusted. She had the only key and while we both knew they were there, we also knew there was no getting in there.
What she tried to hide most and what I believe I always hid my knowledge of, was how lonely she was. I’m a nostalgic sort. I would go through the whole house and dust and touch and inspect. The empty Huckleberry Cream Soda bottles and the ankh mom had molded from clay. The bamboo goblets and the 3D puzzle statue of King Tut. Mom’s jewelry box. Her drawers full of notebooks with lyrics and poems I thought she had written. Instead they were songs she’d heard and lingered on, written word for word and filled hundreds of pages. All of which were yellowed. Dawning from before my birth up to the years I first found them.
She worked a lot. At one point, she was the manager of three separate departments in Kmart: auto, hardware, and toys. I would go in before and after school and help her front board games or Matchbox cars. They laid her off mere months before her ten year anniversary but while she was there, she would come home, kick off her shoes, and sit in her bedroom, leaving my sister and I to occupy ourselves.
She hid her chocolate stash in her dresser drawers - easy. She’d go to work and I’d hang out it her room, watch movies, and chip away at it. I’d stand on her bed and belt out Panic! at the Disco.
I’ve always had a lot of anxiety. When I was younger, I dealt with some anxiety induced insomnia. I would lay wide away in my bed and any noise was a sign of an intruder. That creak in the linoleum was not the cat, it was the systematic murder of my mother and my sister. If I were to step outside of my bedroom, I would find them both in their rooms, dead. Blood everywhere. I would wait for an hour after the last violent noise,walk silently to my door and open it slowly, looking for signs of the massacre I’d imagined, then walk down the hall to my mom’s room and open her cracked door even more slowly.
There she’d be, fast asleep in her ragged red flannel in the fetal position, the blankets disheveled. And every time I knew, there would be no sleep for me if I didn’t sleep there. So I’d crawl in. Sometimes, she would turn over and wrap her arms around me and sometimes she would tell me to go back to my room, though I don’t know that I ever actually did.
Later, after I told her why I came to her room, she said I should have told her. She would’ve done something. There was nothing she could have done, though, beyond letting me sleep there. Letting me make sure she was safe.
I was able to predict her mood by the songs we listened to on the way to town every morning. If it was Alanis, she was angry - ramped up and ready to take on the bullshit that is misogyny. If it was Train, she was hopeful and happy, or at least content. Matchbox Twenty was for when she was unloved and unwanted.
She was never either of those things, but being loved and wanted by your daughter is never quite the same.
When Jess and I grew tall, my small mother took to calling us her Amazon Women. Her protectors. Her girls. It was around the time she actually started to shrink in size and I started countering her arguments with “I can lift you."
Physically, I could. Emotionally, I’d like to think the same. The time has come and gone where I was the same age as she when she had her first daughter. I imagine myself in her position: living with an alcoholic husband and a small child and I don’t know how she did it. She was so strong.
I’ve always been better than her at hiding. The anxiety. The depression. The crushes. The outings into the desert. Bike rides into town. My sister’s secrets. And my own.
It was my last semester at University of Idaho that I realized hiding was the reason I didn’t feel connected to anyone. The reason I’d stop letting myself feel anything. I was too afraid they wouldn’t want me for whoever I was - I honestly didn’t know, anymore, who I was.
I think we shared a journey. I did mine without a husband and two crazy kids, but in the end, we both lost a lot to get back to who we are and what we truly want. It’s taken a lot for us to let ourselves have it.
It’s been years since it was just Mom and I against the world and, thankfully, she’s not lonely anymore. She finally found someone who doesn’t make her write Nicselfkleback songs in 49 cent spirals. And she replaced me with a cat that she spoils (Mom, Miss Kitten is fat, admit it to yourself). I miss her every single day, but just as I told her when I was little and showed the first signs of awful math skills: I love her. Ten to a thousand. And no manner of miles or mountains or live in boyfriends or fat cats she clearly loves more than me is going to change that.
Although this meta-photo of her might…
